Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

drawing-room came as a shock to Agatha, who had been expecting something country-house with chintz, Persian rugs, and oil paintings. There were two large oatmeal sofas in front of the fire, the sort you made up of blocks of chairs. In front of them was an oblong black-lacquered table. The walls were painted blood-red and the fitted carpet was a gleaming expanse of white. The paintings were modern abstracts. The side tables were of white lacquer and covered with photo frames holding pictures of the Trumpington-Jameses out hunting, at parties, at Henley, at Ascot and various other fashionable places. A black-lacquered wall unit held a television set, a CD player and very new and unread-looking books. The fire was one of those electric fake-log ones. The room was bright, lit by a crystal chandelier overhead, and by angular brass standard lamps in the corners.
    ‘Do sit down, Mrs Raisin,’ said Tolly Trumpington-James, rising to meet her. He was wearing a hacking jacket and cavalry-twill trousers. His Tattersall shirt was open at the neck.
    ‘Call me Agatha,’ said Agatha, sitting down. She scanned the room for signs of an ashtray but could see none. She gave a little sigh, but at least it would keep her off fags for an hour.
    Lucy rang a bell in the wall beside the fireplace. Its summons was answered, not by a neat maid, but by a fat, surly-looking woman in a stained gingham pinafore.
    ‘We’ll have tea now, Betty,’ said Lucy.
    ‘And then I’m off,’ said surly Betty. ‘You’ll need to clear up yourselves.’ She clumped off in a pair of battered boots.
    ‘Help these days,’ said Lucy, raising her eyes. ‘Do you have trouble with help, Agatha?’
    Not so long ago, the old Agatha, intimidated at being in a manor house, would have invented colourful stories about a whole regiment of servants. Now she simply said, ‘I don’t have any trouble back home. I have an excellent cleaning woman who comes in twice a week.’
    ‘Lucky you,’ sighed Lucy. ‘I sometimes wish we had never come here.’
    ‘Why did you?’ asked Agatha curiously.
    ‘Made my pile,’ said Tolly. ‘Wanted a bit of country life. Get a bit of hunting.’
    ‘And because he wants to act the squire, we’re stuck here,’ said Lucy with a light laugh.
    Her husband flashed her an angry look, but the door opened and Betty lumbered in with a large tray which she deposited on the low table in front of them. Besides tea, there was a plate with a few chocolate biscuits – no sandwiches, no fruit-cake.
    ‘That will be all, Betty,’ said Tolly imperiously.
    ‘Should think so, too,’ grumbled Betty and off she went.
    ‘Such a character,’ murmured Lucy, clanking her bangles.
    People who would not pay good wages and put up with surly help were usually tight with money, thought Agatha.
    ‘We had such a nice place in London. Kensington,’ said Lucy, pouring tea. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar, Agatha. Do you know Kensington?’
    ‘Yes, very well. I used to live in London. I had a public relations business. I took early retirement to move to the Cotswolds.’
    ‘Don’t you miss London?’
    ‘I did when I first moved to the country, but then a lot of exciting and scary things happened, and Carsely – that’s where I live – began to seem more interesting than London.’
    There was a slight snore. Tolly had fallen asleep, his teacup resting on his paunch.
    Lucy sighed, rose and took the cup from him.
    ‘If only we could get back to London,’ she mourned. ‘But he wants to be the country gentleman. Doesn’t work. None of the county invite us unless they want money for some charity or other. I tried to get that coat of arms taken down.’
    ‘Doesn’t it come from the College of Arms or something?’
    ‘No, he had an artist make it up for him. He got some poncey interior designer to do this room. Isn’t it foul?’
    ‘It’s a bit . . . modern.’
    ‘It’s vulgar.’
    ‘Could you rent in London for the winter?’
    ‘He won’t think of it. He likes to keep me trapped here. So tell me, what on earth could be exciting about living in the Cotswolds?’
    Agatha chattered on happily about her amazing detective abilities until she realized she was boring Lucy, so she finished by saying, ‘You have an interesting mystery here in Fryfam.’
    ‘Like what?’ Lucy stifled a yawn.
    ‘The fairies. The dancing lights.’
    ‘Oh, those. I’m telling you, once the second-home people go back to London, you’re left with a lot of